


How Crowley Failed to Steal Christmas

by Nicnac



Series: Grinch Omens [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Christmas, Fluff, How the Grinch Stole Christmas AU, M/M, Max the Cat, Romance, also featuring:, but also a literal cat, who is a metaphor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:33:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21602272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nicnac/pseuds/Nicnac
Summary: Every Who down in Whoville liked Christmas a lot.But Crowley, who lived just north of Whoville, did not.Crowley hated Christmas, the whole Christmas season.Now, please, don't ask why. No one quite knows the reason.It could be perhaps that his snakeskin boots were too tight.It could be his head wasn't screwed on just right.But I think that the most likely reason of all,May have been that his heart was two sizes too small.As Crowley took the tree, as he started to shove,He heard a small sound like the coo of a dove.He turned around fast, and he saw a soft Who,Aziraphale Who, all dressed in tartan and blue.And what happened then? Well, in Whoville they say,That Crowley’s snake-y heart grew three sizes that day.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Grinch Omens [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1567081
Comments: 40
Kudos: 150
Collections: Aziraphale's Library Festive Fic Recs





	How Crowley Failed to Steal Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [summerofspock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/gifts).



> Over on tumblr summerofspock was asked about the weirdest AU she'd ever come up with, and she said Good Omens How the Grinch Stole Christmas AU, which she was never going to write. And she did all this right in front of my face. I don't know what else to tell you, guys.

‘Twas the night before Christmas, or possibly even very early the morning of by this point in the evening, and all through the house not a creature should have been stirring, but well, Aziraphale always had been a bit of an insomniac. Though really, just sitting in bed reading hardly even counted as stirring. And there certainly weren’t any other creatures stirring, especially not mice – Aziraphale wouldn’t stand for mice, not when he had so many old and rare books in his home. He had been thinking about getting a cat, both as a further deterrent for the mice and for the company. Aziraphale had so many lovely friends in town, of course, but they all had their own families and loved ones to go home to at the end of the day, while Aziraphale had... his books. Not that he didn’t love his books, but books couldn’t love one back, couldn’t provide company and comfort and conversation. Granted, a cat couldn’t provide conversation either, but it could curl up in one’s lap and purr affectionately, which was just as good in a lot of ways. And was not nearly as good in a lot of other ways, but beggars, choosers, and all that. The point was Aziraphale hadn’t gotten a cat yet, so all through the house not a creature was stirring. Which made it all the more alarming when Aziraphale heard a very loud thump coming from downstairs.

Aziraphale carefully placed a bookmark in his book, then tossed back the covers and got out of bed. He wasn’t too worried as yet. Whoville was a very nice town. While there was no reason Aziraphale could see that anyone should be knocking around in his house uninvited so late on Christmas Eve, he was certain whoever it was did actually have a very good reason for it. He slid his feet into his sky blue house slippers – a perfect match for his cotton pyjamas – and pulled on his tartan robe and headed downstairs.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said softly as he stepped through the doorway and spied his intruder. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t the man standing in his living room. He whipped around the second Aziraphale spoke, trying to pretend as though he hadn’t been doing something to the miniature tree Aziraphale had placed on his living room table.

“Hello the—” the man cleared his throat and started over, pitching his voice deeper and affecting a tone that was probably meant to be jovial, though it was entirely unconvincing. “Hello there!”

“Hello,” Aziraphale said uncertainly. “Uh, what are you doing in my house?”

“It’s me. Santa Claus.” Oh, so that _was_ supposed to be a Santa costume. Aziraphale honestly hadn’t been sure. The coat and hat did look as though whoever had put them together – the man himself presumably – knew what he was doing, but the materials they were made of were quite obviously subpar. And aside from the coat and hat ensemble, the man hadn’t done anything to make himself look very much like Santa. He was rail thin, without even a pillow stuffed under his shirt as a token gesture to Santa’s normal roundness, had no beard whatsoever, and what Aziraphale could see of his hair was a deep red that clashed horribly against the red of the hat. And the rest of his outfit was no better. Very tight denim trousers, a pair of… were those _snakeskin_ boots? And sunglasses that might have looked cool had he not been wearing them at the dead of night. The man coughed awkwardly. “I’m here doing… Santa things.”

“I see,” Aziraphale said, though he absolutely did nothing of the sort.

“Yes, I was just checking your tree here. Looked like one of the lights had gone out,” the man said. He turned to gesture at the tree. In doing so he turned his head as well, affording Aziraphale a look at the side of his face and, more specifically, the snake tattoo there.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, comprehension dawning. No wonder he hadn’t recognized the man, despite being sure he knew everyone in Whoville, by face if not necessarily by name. But unless he was very much mistaken, this man didn’t live in Whoville at all.

There were rumours in Whoville, had been for the last ten years, if not twenty, of a man who lived somewhere up on Mt. Crumpit, just north of Whoville. How and why the man had come to live there the rumours didn’t say. Or rather, they did say, but there were so many different and outlandish theories, it was very likely that they were all completely made up. The only thing the rumours did agree on was if the man did exist – which was still up for debate – his name was either Crowley or Crawly and he was some kind of serpent. A snake tattoo would explain the latter rumour quite neatly, Aziraphale thought.

That still left the question of what Crowley – of the two options, Crowley seemed more like a real name, so that was what Aziraphale would go with unless told otherwise – was doing in Aziraphale’s house. Then again, now knowing that it was Crowley, Aziraphale was able to create his own theories as to that. After all, hadn’t he just been thinking how lonely it was to be in an empty house, especially during Christmas time? And Aziraphale had the advantage of friends nearby he could call on, and of knowing he could join in on the festivities the town as a whole would be throwing for Christmas Day. What did Crowley have? Had anyone even bothered to invite him to join in the celebration? Aziraphale certainly hadn’t, much to his guilt. So, unsure of his welcome, Crowley had instead taken upon himself his own little private Christmas scheme as a way to feel included.

Well. Well. That certainly couldn’t be allowed to stand. Aziraphale would play along with Crowley’s charade of course – he wouldn’t want to ruin it when Crowley had gone to so much effort to… do whatever it was he was doing. But Aziraphale also simply couldn’t allow him to think his efforts were unappreciated or that he was in any way unwelcome in Whoville.

Aziraphale smiled at Crowley. “Yes, of course. Thank you, Santa. Oh, but I completely forgot to put out treats for you.”

Crowley looked surprised and rather taken aback by this, which only left Aziraphale more determined. “You don’t—“

“Nonsense, I insist,” Aziraphale said, interrupting before Crowley could even finish his objection. He guided the other man over to the couch and sat him down. “Here, I have this lovely tin of iced biscuits. I haven’t the foggiest how he managed it, but my neighbour Newt wrangled all the children together – Adam and his friends, the Johnson boy and his little gang and even Warlock, who appears to be some sort of free agent of chaos – and they made these. The biscuits themselves are nice, if rather average, but one really has to admire the creative enthusiasm involved.”

Crowley opened the tin and held up a biscuit in the shape of a reindeer head, iced with glowing red eyes and sharp fangs. “They’re something alright.”

“Oh, and you’ll need something to drink as well. Milk is traditional, but I could make you some cocoa if you prefer? Or, well I’m afraid my coffee maker is rather old and slow, but I could make you a nice strong mug of tea to help you get through the rest of the night,” Aziraphale said.

“That…” Crowley trailed off when he saw Aziraphale’s expression, which made it quite clear that refusal wasn’t an option. “Tea would be great.”

“Coming right up,” Aziraphale said, bustling into the kitchen. He paused at the cabinet for a moment before pulling down only one mug. The point was to do something nice for Crowley to show gratitude, not to trap him here listening to Aziraphale’s chatter and take up all the time he was meant to be spending on his little project. He could maybe invite Crowley over for tea some other day. Or, well he did have that tradition of opening a nice bottle of wine on Christmas evening, and it would be just lovely to have someone to share it with.

“You don’t have much in the way of Christmas decorations, do you?” Crowley called from the other room.

“Ah, no, I suppose not,” Aziraphale answered. He set the kettle on the stove to boil and poked through his small selection of tea bags. He preferred using proper tea leaves whenever possible, but he thought a tea bag might be quicker and easier for Crowley in this instance. “It doesn’t seem entirely worth the effort to decorate when it’s just me here, especially when there’s all this clutter I have to clean up before I could even begin to decorate with any sort of thoroughness.”

“So you don’t celebrate? I thought everyone in Whoville loved Christmas,” Crowley said.

“Oh I do! If anything that’s another reason not to decorate. Why decorate my home when I’m planning on spending most of the day attending the lovely celebration we have in town?”

“Huh,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale stood in the doorway to give Crowley a vaguely suspicious look. Crowley was now sprawled across half the couch with the tin of iced biscuits sat open on his lap, though he didn’t appear to be eating any of them. “What huh? Do you… not like Christmas?” It was something Aziraphale was objectively aware could be possible, and yet it seemed a completely foreign concept to him.

“Course I like it,” Crowley said gruffly. “I’m Santa.” He grabbed one of the biscuits and shoved the whole thing in his mouth.

“Right,” Aziraphale said. Crowley wasn’t actually Santa obviously, but it was a fair point that someone who went to the trouble of dressing up as Santa to spread Christmas cheer was hardly a likely candidate for hating the holidays.

The kettle began shrieking and Aziraphale went back to the kitchen to finish the tea. “Milk or sugar?” he called.

“No milk and… one sugar,” Crowley answered.

Well then. Aziraphale emerged from the kitchen and handed the mug to Crowley. “There you are. Just let that steep for a minute. And here,” he placed the whole sugar bowl on the table in front of him, “so you can add as much as you like.”

Crowley looked at him with a mixture of surprise and what couldn’t possibly be awe. “Really,” Aziraphale said, “you’re not the only one here with a sweet tooth.” He grabbed a biscuit from the tin and bit into it before grinning sunnily at Crowley with perhaps just a hint of smugness to it.

Crowley coughed. Rather alarmingly actually, he almost appeared to be choking, though Aziraphale hadn’t the faintest what he could be choking on. “Are you alright, dear?”

“Fine, I’m—“ Crowley coughed once more then patted his chest a few times. “I’m fine.”

“Alright. I’ll leave you to it then,” Aziraphale said. “Hopefully I’ll see you at the party tomorrow?”

“No.” Crowley, well he didn’t sit up straighter so much as settle into his lounge more artfully, but the overall effect was the same. “No, I won’t be making it to that,” he said.

“Why not?” Aziraphale asked, stifling down a thread of disappointment. Crowley just seemed so interesting. There was a smirk playing about his lips, like there was a secret he wasn’t telling, and Aziraphale desperately wanted to know what it was. He wanted to know what Crowley was planning with this whole Christmas charade and what had inspired him to undertake it. He wanted to know why Crowley had a snake tattoo and wore sunglasses at night. He wanted to know when and why Crowley had moved to his home on Mt. Crumpit and if he enjoyed the solitude or if he got lonely the way Aziraphale did sometimes. Despite their brief acquaintance, there was something about Crowley that made Aziraphale want to know more, far more than could ever fit into a single passing moment of conversation in the night.

Crowley seemed surprised by Aziraphale’s question, and it took a moment for him to come up with an answer. “The North Pole,” he said. “That is, after I’m done here I’ve got to head back home. To the North Pole.”

“Oh yes, that is quite a trek,” Aziraphale said. Whoville was nestled right at the southern base of Mt Crumpit, but it was still a mountain. Crowley could spend the night with his little project, head back home, and climb in bed just in time to have to get right back up again to head back to Whoville for Christmas. No, that wouldn’t do at all.

“I have an idea,” Aziraphale said, clapping his hands together delightedly. “You can stay here tonight.”

“What.”

“Yes, that’ll work splendidly. You can finish your rounds, then come back here and sleep on my couch. It’s quite comfortable, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. Then we can have a quiet morning – as quiet as Whoville gets on Christmas morning at any rate – and join everyone in the afternoon for the feast and carols.” Crowley looked rather startled by Aziraphale’s offer, but he didn’t object, which Aziraphale took to mean he was interested. “I’ll go get you a pillow and some blankets.”

When Aziraphale returned, Crowley was sprawled out again across the couch, and was regarding Aziraphale with an amused expression. “You’re bossy, aren’t you?”

Aziraphale stopped dead in the doorway and his stomach dropped out. “Oh.” He was being bossy, wasn’t he? He wanted a chance to get to know Crowley better, but that hardly meant Crowley felt the same way. “Sorry. I was trying to be nice, and I got carried away without thinking about what you wanted. Terribly sorry.”

“No. No, no, no, no, no.” Crowley leapt up from the couch, launching his gangly limbs over the back of it in order to reach Aziraphale faster. “That’s not what I – course you’re nice; you’re an angel. I’d love to stay. Here, just let me…” Crowley swooped in to take the pillow and blankets from Aziraphale, leaving him standing in the doorway as well.

Any relief Aziraphale had felt at Crowley’s reaction dissolved away in an instant, replaced by embarrassment and a flutter of other emotions Aziraphale refused to name. He glanced upward. Crowley glanced upward as well and frowned. Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Ah, my neighbour Anathema hung that up there. She was trying to tease me I think.”

“By hanging a plant up?” Crowley said. He hadn’t stepped away after taking the pillow and blankets from Aziraphale, and his words hung soft in the small space between them.

“Yes, well, you know, mistletoe. That silly old tradition.” They really were standing very close. Close enough that Aziraphale could see the smudge of ash along the line Crowley’s jaw. Goodness, had he actually come in down the chimney? That was ridiculous, and yet… And yet, it was oddly endearing, the thought of him being so committed to the Santa charade. Aziraphale’s tongue darted out to lick his lips, and though it was impossible to tell with the sunglasses, he swore he saw Crowley’s eyes follow the motion. It was a silly tradition, but it was a harmless one really. And tradition was tradition. Aziraphale leaned up and placed a kiss on Crowley’s cheek.

There was something of shock in Crowley’s expression as he looked at Aziraphale. His jaw worked uselessly for a few moments before he finally managed to scrape out, “Angel…”

“Aziraphale,” he said quickly. “My name is Aziraphale Who. Though of course I’m sure you already knew that, Santa.” The latter sentence was said with a knowing smile, and he’d considered adding a wink too, but decided that’d be a little much.

Crowley stepped back. “Right. Santa,” he said, his expression closed off now. For a moment Aziraphale was worried he’d done something wrong, but then it occurred to him that while he had arguably done something wrong, it wasn’t the sort of wrong thing he had been worried about. It was just that Crowley had a very tight schedule to keep no doubt, and here Aziraphale had been dithering about and holding him up. They’d have plenty of time to talk more tomorrow.

“I’ll let you finish your tea and get back to your rounds then. I’ll see you in the morning,” he said. “Oh, and feel free to come in the front door next time; it’s not locked.”

Crowley made a humming noise, which Aziraphale took for agreement. He turned back down the hallway and called down as he headed up the stairs to his room. “Good night, my dear.”

“Good night. Aziraphale.”

* * *

Aziraphale woke the next morning with an unrestrained sense of excitement. Which made perfect sense, of course. It was Christmas Day, plenty of cause for excitement. And if Aziraphale was perhaps a bit more excited than usual remembering the home invader turned friend crashed out on his couch, well, making a new friend was more than reasonable justification for excitement, really.

He took care to be quiet as he came down the stairs. By some miracle no one had started up with their instruments yet this morning, and Aziraphale was loathe to cut through the silence, especially on the very likely chance Crowley was still sleeping. He must have stayed up very late the night before, what with his project. Aziraphale peeked into the living room, intending to check on Crowley and either leave him to his sleep if he was still resting or offer to make breakfast if he were up.

He stopped dead in the doorway. Crowley wasn’t on the couch. The pillow and blankets were still folded neatly, resting on the side table. The optimistic part of Aziraphale’s brain insisted that perhaps Crowley just hadn’t gotten back yet, but even it sounded small and uncertain. There was something very final and decided about the placement of the pillow and blankets. They weren’t waiting there for someone to return and use them, they were there to be put away because they weren’t needed.

Aziraphale found himself sitting down on the couch and pulling the pillow into his lap to stare at morosely. He had done something wrong, hadn’t he? The kiss on the cheek had been too much. Aziraphale had only done it because it was tradition. Well, if he was being honest he’d probably done it because he wanted to, but he wouldn’t have done it if it hadn’t also been tradition. And it had only been a kiss on the cheek, the same he might do for any friend or acquaintance. And with the way Crowley had been looking at him, he had really thought… But it didn’t matter what he’d thought; if he had made Crowley uncomfortable then he was wrong to have done it. He glanced at the coffee table but while Crowley’s now empty mug was still there, the tin of iced biscuits was gone. Aziraphale didn’t mind Crowley taking them – it was the least he could offer in exchange for making him uncomfortable – but he could really use one himself right about now.

He sat there for longer than he’d like to admit staring moodily into the distance and telling himself he’d get up any minute now. Only, he had gotten so excited for today and now he’d been too forward and ruined everything for himself and Crowley both. He was so absorbed in his thoughts he didn’t even notice the commotion outside, or how it differed from the normal Christmas morning commotion, until there was a knock on his door.

“Anathema, dear girl, good morning,” Aziraphale said upon opening his door and finding his lovely neighbour on the other side. Though she was looking a bit more “just rolled out of bed” this morning than he was accustomed to seeing. “I’m afraid I’m not…” in the mood right now, but what a horrible, dour thing to say on Christmas. Yes, his behaviour last night had been regrettable and its consequences unfortunate, but it was still Christmas. There was plenty to be joyful about.

“They got your things too, huh?” Anathema said sympathetically.

“They…? I’m sorry, who did what now?” Aziraphale asked.

“Last night someone went house to house and stole everyone’s Christmas things. All the presents and the decorations and even all the food for the Christmas feast,” she said.

“How dreadful,” Aziraphale said. He thought back to his own house, and yes his little tree had been absent from the side table this morning, hadn’t it? He couldn’t swear to it without going back to double-check, but it seemed perfectly likely that all his Christmas things had been missing. He’d only not noticed because he’d been a little distracted this morning, and he really hadn’t had all that much to begin with, as Crowley had pointed out… last night.

Oh. Oh no. Oh _Crowley_. Oh no.

Aziraphale opened his mouth. Closed it again. Pressed his lips together. “Well,” he said. “Well, this certainly is a pickle, isn’t it?”

Anathema gave him a searching look. Aziraphale made his best attempt at a guileless expression, which he assumed must have worked because after a moment she gave him a small smile. “We’re all gathering in the town square. I sent Newt on ahead, but no one remembered seeing you out this morning, so I thought I’d better come get you.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said. “Now let’s go see what we can do about fixing this mess.”

By the time the two of them arrived in the square most of the rest of the town was already there, with the last few stragglers following soon after. It was quickly established there were no Christmas things left to be found anywhere in town. Presents were given up on as being impractical to replace at this late stage, but the point of presents in the end was merely to show others you cared, which could be accomplished just as well with a hug or a smile or a kind word. The traditional decorations were gone, but the crafting supplies weren’t, and soon they had a whole gaggle of children, plus a good number of adults, volunteering to make paper chains and popsicle stick Santas and yarn reindeer. And for the outside there was plenty enough snow for a wide variety of snowmen and snowwomen and snow children and snow cats and snow dogs. There was even on enterprising group of Whos who were determined to make an ice palace. With regards to the Christmas feast, there were quite a number of pantries laid bare, but the grocery store was mostly untouched aside from being completely empty of rare Who beast roasts. Chicken and fish would make for an untraditional Christmas feast, but it would still taste just as well. And Newt was already rounding the older children up to make iced biscuits once again. Christmas was coming back together, and if it was less grand than it had been in years past, that was alright. Christmas wasn’t about ribbons or tags, it wasn’t about packages, boxes, or bags. Christmas Day would always be, so long as they had each other.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Excuse me, everyone,” he called out. All the other Whos stopped for a moment to look at him. “I know this is a bit out of our traditional order, but as this whole Christmas is shaping up to be rather non-traditional anyway, and as we’re all here, I thought it might be nice if we started the day with a carol or two.”

“Oh, that does sound lovely,” Madame Tracy agreed, and the rest of the Whos followed suit.

The tree from the town square was gone just as everything else was, but they all still formed a circle around where it had been. Aziraphale ended up with Adam on one side with his parents just beyond him and Anathema on the other with Newt just beyond her. Aziraphale clasped both Adam and Anathema’s hands warmly and they all began to sing. With each word he could feel his spirits lifting and his heart growing lighter. Right up until it stopped altogether.

Anathema squeezed his hand. “Is something wrong?” she whispered, no doubt worried by the way Aziraphale’s singing had faltered to a stop. He inclined his head in the direction of Mt Crumpit. Around them the other Whos slowly stopped singing as well as they all noticed what Aziraphale had seen. A sleigh, piled up at least ten times as high as was in any way reasonable, coming toward Whoville, with Crowley sitting atop.

The sleigh slid to a halt just outside the circle of Whos. The cat perched up there with an inexplicable antler tied to its head – well, it was explicable, just also a truly terrible idea – hopped down and began nonchalantly weaving its way through the crowd. This apparently left all the… chalantness for Crowley because while he’d looked positively gleeful on his way down the mountain, he now looked painfully awkward up there on top of his pile of ill-gotten gains. His gaze swept over the crowd and his eyes met Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale looked away.

“Well, hello there,” Madame Tracy said. She cast a warning look at Shadwell and gave him what appeared to be a very fierce squeeze of his hand, then let go and approached the sleigh. “Did you find our missing Christmas things for us?”

Crowley gave an awkward cough. “Something like that, yeah.” There wasn’t a Who present, save perhaps the very young ones, that didn’t know the truth of the matter, but none of them protested this rather more gentle reframing of events. Aziraphale half-expected Anathema might, but when he glanced over at her she was giving him that searching look again. Then she smiled, knowing and fond, and didn’t say a single word.

“How kind of you to bring it all back to us then,” Madame Tracy said. “We’ll help you unload, and then of course you’ll stay for the feast and carols after.”

“Of course,” Crowley said faintly, sounding far from certain.

Many hands made the unloading of the sleigh go faster than the loading must have, but things were slowed considerably by constant stopping and starting to play instruments and open gifts and on one occasion have an impromptu snowball fight. As a result the Christmas feast ended up taking place a good bit later than it normally did, but no one had a single complaint to offer. Crowley – which was confirmed to be his real name rather than Crawly – did stay for the feast and carols, and looked utterly gobsmacked when he was asked to carve the roast beast. It had been a very kind gesture on Warlock’s part to suggest it, though Aziraphale did suspect he’d done it at least in part to prevent Shadwell carving again, as the only reason anyone could offer for why Shadwell carved every year is because he had been doing it for longer than anyone could remember, but the truth was he was actually quite terrible at it. But whatever the reason, there was no denying Crowley looked pleased by the offer.

Aziraphale wasn’t avoiding Crowley, not really. He was just making a contentious effort not to approach him. He’d been through a whiplash of emotions regarding Crowley in the less than twenty-four hours since he’d met him, going from regarding him as a trespasser to a friend to potentially something more than a friend to someone he’d wronged horribly to a thief and charlatan who wronged him to… whatever he was now. Aziraphale didn’t know anymore. So he watched from a distance as Crowley was mothered by Madame Tracy, was dryly sardonic as Shadwell behaved like Shadwell, played with the kids and chatted amicably with their parents, got into a spirited debate with Newt of all people, and had a surprisingly intense and hushed conversation with Anathema. Sometimes – frequently, Aziraphale caught Crowley staring at him. Occasionally, Aziraphale stared back for a few moments before he got flustered and looked away again. But not once did Crowley come up to him. And that, Aziraphale supposed, was his answer.

The sun had set, the carols had all been sung, and another Christmas Day was dwindling to a close. All the children had been chased off to bed by their parents, and now the rest of the adults were beginning to slip away as well. Aziraphale said the last of his good nights and was just excusing himself to end the day with a glass of wine and a good book in front of the fire when a cat began twining about his legs.

“Hello,” he said, bending to pick the creature up. “Aren’t you a handsome fellow?” It was quite large for a cat, with beautiful long brown fur and luminous green eyes. It had also lost the antler at some point during the day, fortunately so, because as soon as Aziraphale had picked it up, it began purring loudly and rubbing its head on Aziraphale’s chin.

“His name’s Max.”

Aziraphale startled, then turned around. Standing behind him was Crowley. He’d shed his headgear as well – Aziraphale recalled seeing the children playing a game of keep away with the Santa hat, though he wasn’t sure who had ended up with it – and while he still had the Santa coat on, it was open in the front, showing the black shirt underneath. His hands, or at least his fingers, were stuffed in the too-small pockets of his too-tight jeans, his head was down, and his hips were casually cocked at what had to be an uncomfortable angle.

“Max,” Aziraphale repeated. “He, uh, he’s very sweet.”

“He’s a terror,” Crowley corrected. “He’s just sucking up because he likes you, is all.”

“Oh. Well, I rather think I like him too,” Aziraphale said, only about fifty percent certain they were still talking about the cat.

“I wanted to explain myself to you before you left,” Crowley said.

“You don’t have to explain anything to me,” said Aziraphale.

“Didn’t say I had to. Said I wanted to.”

“Oh. Right. Of course. By all means then.” Aziraphale looked down at Max, scratching under his chin and petting him with far more intensity than strictly required.

“I told myself it was about the noise,” Crowley began. “I live halfway up the mountain and I can still hear you all down here all Christmas long.”

“Oh goodness,” Aziraphale said, “we’ve been terrible neighbours.”

“Nah. Well, yeah a little bit,” Crowley said. “But it wasn’t really about the noise. I was trying to prove a point, I think. You’ve got that one song, about how it’s Christmas as long as you’re holding each other’s hands?”

“Christmas day is in our grasp, so long as we have hands to clasp,” Aziraphale recited.

“That’s the one. So I can hear you every year singing about how Christmas is all about love and acceptance, and here I am thinking that’s a load of bull. All you really care about is the stuff. So I was going to take all the stuff and it’d ruin your Christmas, yeah? And that would prove I was right and you were all a bunch of shallow pricks after all. Except here I am pulling this sleigh full of all the stuff up to the top of the mountain to dump it and all the sudden I hear it. That same exact song. And it was like, I’ll be damned, maybe they do really mean all that bit about love and acceptance. So I brought it all back.”

“I see,” Aziraphale said, and he didn’t, not entirely, but he thought he was getting a lot closer than he had been. “We were a little at fault as well, I think, never reaching out to let you know you were welcome. I do wonder… is that the reason you turned my invitation down?”

“It wasn’t that I didn’t want to,” Crowley said. “It was… God, it was tempting, but you weren’t really inviting _me_ to stay, were you? You were inviting Santa.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, staring at the man in bafflement. But no, he appeared to be entirely genuine. “Crowley, Santa’s not real. He’s a fairy story for children.”

Crowley’s mouth opened and closed a few times. “I… did not know that.”

“Oh, but of course you didn’t,” Aziraphale said, rushing to soothe his obvious embarrassment. “Who was there to tell you when you lived up on the mountain all alone? Max seems a delightful companion, but I suspect he’s not much of a conversationalist.”

If Crowley’s laugh was still awkward, it was much less so than it could have been. “I don’t know, he’s pretty vocal when he wants something,” he said. “But, uh. If you didn’t think I was Santa, who did you think you were inviting to spend the night at your place?”

“You,” Aziraphale said, a bit confused by the question.

“Well, yes obviously me, but who did you think I was?”

“I thought you were you,” Aziraphale repeated. “Crowley, the hermit who lived up on the mountain. Well, I wasn’t entirely sure of your name, but I did think it was Crowley, and it was still you in any case.”

“I… you knew it was me?”

“I knew it couldn’t be anyone from town because I didn’t recognize you. And then, and I hope you don’t get offended by this, but there are rumours about you that have floated about through town, including a number of them about you being a serpent of some kind. I saw your tattoo, and from there it was an easy assumption,” Aziraphale explained.

“That’s not why they call me a snake,” Crowley said. “It’s because…” he sighed and tilted his sunglasses down, giving Aziraphale his first glimpse at his eyes. The colour was hard to be certain of in the low lighting, but they appeared to be a shade of yellow, with no whites to speak of. His pupils were large and rounded at first, but Crowley looked directly into the lamplight for a moment, allowing Aziraphale to see the way they narrowed into long slits.

“Oh. Those are…”

“Disgusting, I know,” Crowley said, pushing his glasses back up.

Aziraphale very nearly ripped them right off his face, but decided that would be crossing a line. “I was going to say fascinating. Beautiful even.”

Crowley stared at him a moment, his face carefully blank. Aziraphale dearly wished he could see his eyes again, just to see them of course, but also because from his brief look they had appeared terribly expressive. “You really think so?”

“I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t.”

One side of Crowley’s lips quirked up. “You really are an angel.”

“Oh, not really,” Aziraphale, blushing and flustered with the compliment.

“You are. A Christmas angel.”

“Now you’re just making fun of me.”

“I would never,” Crowley said with a smile that communicated quite clearly that he would as frequently as he thought he could get away with it. Aziraphale found he didn’t mind in the slightest. “In fact, I have a Christmas wish for you, Christmas angel.”

“And what’s that?” Aziraphale asked.

“It appears I’m not all that informed on Christmas traditions. And who better to teach me than a Christmas angel?” Crowley’s words were rather grand and theatrical for his first two sentences, but softened when he added, “If you want to.”

“I’d be delighted,” Aziraphale said. “I was actually headed home now to crack open a bottle of wine and sit in by the fire for a while if you’d like to join me and begin your lessons.”

“Better not. I already had two glasses earlier with dinner,” Crowley said.

“We don’t have to drink if you don’t want to,” Aziraphale said. He had been looking forward to that glass of wine, but given the choice he’d prefer cocoa and company.

“It’s not a question of wanting to. But have you ever tried to climb a mountain in the middle of the night, drunk?”

“Ah.”

“Exactly.”

“Well,” Aziraphale began nervously, and then reminded himself there had been every indication the offer would be well-received. “The invitation to sleep on my couch is an open one. If you’d prefer. And Max is welcome too, of course.” He looked down at the feline which had gone completely boneless in his arms, and might actually have been asleep.

“You mean that?” Crowley asked.

“I do. I’m quite fond of cats,” Aziraphale said. This time he was certain they weren’t talking about Max.

“Hey, Aziraphale.” Aziraphale looked up just in time to see Crowley lean in a place a kiss on his cheek. “Forgot to give you this back,” he said, his cheeks bright red. In his hand he held a slightly crumpled sprig of mistletoe, very possibly the same sprig that had been hanging in Aziraphale’s doorway the night before.

“Oh. Uh, thank you. Though perhaps you better hold onto it for me for the moment,” he said. His arms were still rather full of cat.

“Wait a second,” Aziraphale said, something just occurring to him. “Did you not know what mistletoe was for either?”

“I do now,” Crowley mumbled.

Now it was Aziraphale’s turn for furious red cheeks, feeling once again he’d been far too forward the night before. Then again, Crowley didn’t seem as though he minded in the least, so perhaps that meant it all worked out the way it was meant to. “I suppose I have my work cut out for me teaching you Christmas traditions, don’t I?”

Crowley grinned, a slow, blossoming thing that crept its way across his face. “That you do. And I’m a terrible student, you know. Horribly slow learner. It could take weeks. Months even.”

Aziraphale smiled back. “I look forward to it.”

* * *

A year later and once again ‘twas the night before Christmas and once again all through the house not a creature should have been stirring, but once again a loud thump came from downstairs.

“Mmmmm. Wuzzat?” Crowley asked, his voice thick with sleep.

“It’s just Max. I think he must have caught that mouse,” Aziraphale told him. He ran his fingers through Crowley’s hair, and Crowley sleepily nuzzled into the touch. “Go back to sleep, dear.”

Crowley’s eyes blinked open, those long slits taking in the still lit lamp and the book in Aziraphale’s hands. “’S late.”

Aziraphale smiled. “So it is.” He placed his bookmark and gently placed his book on the bedside table before turning out the light and nestling deeper beneath the covers. Crowley immediately latched onto him, wrapping around Aziraphale’s body in a way that suggested a third possible explanation for those old snake rumours. Aziraphale ran his hand through Crowley’s hair again and placed a gentle kiss on his forehead. “Good night, love. Merry Christmas.”

Crowley let out a long contented sigh and just before dropping off to sleep managed a mumbled, “Merry Christmas, angel.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments save Christmas! Or come chill on [tumblr.](https://nicnacsnonsense.tumblr.com/)


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